I'll Keep a Candle Lit
by Contort
Summary: She thought of him as almost a son, but if that were true, then she was the worst mother in history. Wynne and Anders in the Circle tower.
1. Prologue: Homecoming

**Title:** I'll Keep a Candle Lit

**Summary:** She thought of him as almost a son, but if that were true, then she was the worst mother in history. Wynne and Anders in the Circle tower.

**Rating:** Teen for language, violence, implied sexuality, and disturbing themes.

**Characters: **Wynne, Anders, First Enchanter Irving, Knight-Commander Greagoir, Karl Thekla, Ser Cullen

**Author's Notes:** The first part of a two-story series chronically the non-canon life of Anders the apostate and the people who love him. Takes place pre-_Origins_ through early _Awakening_.

This was... different. I'm struggling a bit to write Wynne, but the idea bit me and I can't help but use it. This story is Wynne's point of view instead of Anders', though it really is his story. Um, I'm trying to write this, though with everyone home for the holidays, getting some peace and quiet in which to write angsty fanfic is ridiculously hard. Got a teenage brother playing Skyrim right next to me the whole time. Heh. I'm going to try to hold myself to a schedule when writing this, so I pray I'll get to that elusive regular updating thing at some point.

Also, sorry this chapter is a little boring. The next one will actually feature Anders. And child abuse! Yay! I'm going to Hell for this. Or probably for the Wynne/Oghren I plan on writing. Either way.

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><p><strong>Prologue: Homecoming<strong>

"Senior Enchanter Wynne!"

Wynne reshouldered her pack and mustered a weary smile for the gaggle of young apprentices and Creation mages that had assembled in the main hall to meet her and her entourage. The templars shifted nervously in the background, unnerved by the assembled, excited mages, and Wynne hastened to diffuse the tension.

"Hello, hello. It's lovely to see you again."

"Miss Wynne, Miss Wynne!" An apprentice, perhaps six years old, dashed up and threw her arms around her knees. "You're back! We thought the templars killed you!"

Wynne forced a chuckle, shaking her head. "No, child. Whoever told you a silly thing like that?"

"Anders," the girl replied cheerfully.

Wynne looked at one of the enchanters in askance. The woman shrugged helplessly.

"It's a long story, Wynne. A bit's happened since you left."

"Well, I'm sure it will keep until after dinner. Now, off with you, magelings. Tired, smelly mages need baths and bread."

They managed to round the herd of children up into the apprentice quarters long enough for Wynne and her fellow healers to slip up the stairs and disappear into the enchanter quarters. Wynne battled with herself for a moment before she decided that it wouldn't kill Irving to wait an extra hour or two for his report – long enough for her to soak away some of the travel aches and eat something besides camp fare, at least.

Wynne's position as senior enchanter came with a few perks, such as a private room and bathing chamber and the opportunity to travel outside of the tower, and she was especially grateful for said bath as she sank beneath the hot water she'd conjured. She only got out reluctantly after giving herself a thorough scrubbing, for she knew that the longer she remained in the water, the more likely it became that she'd end up falling asleep in the tub. She had no desire to drown herself or prompt a search party while she was indecent.

Exiting the bathing room, Wynne was surprised by a young Tranquil laying out a meal on her desk.

"Hilde? What are you doing, dear?" Wynne was always polite to the Tranquil. To be otherwise seemed irredeemably rude.

Blank eyes looked up from the task at hand. "Senior Enchanter. The First Enchanter arranged for this meal to be brought for you. You are to report to his office after you have finished eating. I will dispose of the refuse and soiled dishes once you are finished."

"Ah, thank you, Hilde." Wynne sat at the desk and allowed the girl to uncover the dishes. Her nose wrinkled at the smell. Irving had to be behind the pickled eggs near her elbow, though he'd sent a pear strudel in apology for his prank. Really, the man was nearing sixty, and he still acted like a giggling apprentice whenever the opportunity arose.

Wynne ate quickly and carefully thanked Hilde, ignoring the shiver of disquiet down her spine as the other woman simply stared at her uncomprehendingly. Soon enough, she was sweeping into the First Enchanter's office.

"Irving, you know I detest pickled eggs," she said without preamble, striding over to claim her usual chair.

"And I also know you adore pastries." Irving gave her a warm smile behind the bushy beard he was growing out. "You look well, Wynne. I trust you managed to get the situation under control?"

"Fortunately. My team did remarkably well, and with Teyrn Loghain's support and his young daughter's organization, we managed to prevent the wasting sickness from spreading beyond the region." Wynne smiled to herself. "It is always good to show the world the good mages can do, and I doubt the people of Gwaren will forget our intervention soon."

"Excellent. Now, I take it you would like to hear the latest gossip?"

"The status of the tower, you mean?"

"If you'd like to call it that." Irving chuckled. "Well, let's see… One of the apprentices managed to burn half of a bookcase before the nearest templar smote him to cut off his flame spell. We lost almost fifty tomes, and Greagoir was livid. Ranted for hours."

"You must stop goading him, Irving."

"Spoilsport. He's the most fun when he's irritated. Hm, well, I heard a rumor that Enchanter Evelyn finally managed to seduce Willem. Remind me to pay you back, Wynne. I could have sworn he was pining for Eddard, not Evelyn."

"Irving…"

"Yes, yes, I know, you've told me I'm a terrible judge of character, but –"

Wynne pursed her lips. "Irving, do you have anything useful to add? I have more important things to do than listen to you chatter on like a thirteen-year-old apprentice about who is shagging whom."

"Oh, all right. You can pretend you're not interested if you like." Irving steepled his fingers and leaned forward onto his desk. "There is a matter I would like your opinion on. While you were away in Gwaren, we gained three new apprentices. A four-year-old girl who likes to start fires, a seven-year-old boy who likes entropy, nothing unusual, but last month we got something a bit different."

"Is it a spirit healer?" Wynne sounded suddenly excited and a bit greedy. Spirit healers were much more rare than primal or entropy or even spirit specialists.

"Oh, we don't know his specialization yet. He's been most uncooperative. All we know is that he likes ice, his fireballs are abysmal, and he cannot do any entropy."

"That sounds promising." Wynne smiled to herself, already making plans to test the apprentice. "What is his name?"

"And _that_ is where we run into a problem." Irving stood up and began pacing in slow and measured steps. "You see, the boy is twelve years old, and he has refused to tell us anything, even his name."

"Twelve? Did he recently manifest, or is he an… apostate?"

Irving spread his hands in a helpless gesture. "We simply don't know. The squad that brought him in has already returned to their patrols, and their report is missing many details. All we know is that his parents are immigrants from the Anderfels sharecropping somewhere in the wheat and rye farmlands of the Bannorn. Beyond that, we don't know his name, his exact age, his level of schooling, when he manifested his magic…"

"I can see the problem, but it's not too unusual for us to have little information about apprentices." She frowned suspiciously. "What else aren't you telling me?"

"Well, you see, Anders has this tendency to –"

The door burst open and a flustered enchanter ran in. "First Enchanter! We have a problem! Anders is _gone_!"

"- escape." Irving closed his eyes and rubbed at his temples.

It was going to be a long night.


	2. Nameless

**Notes:** Since work on this series is going so well for now, here is a prompt update. And I felt bad about leaving an Anders-centric story with one Andersless chapter. Heh. Special thanks to the people who are following this story above-board (all three of you!) and a wave to any shadow-readers out there.

Happy New Year to all!

**Chapter Warnings:** Non-graphic physical abuse.

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><p><strong>Nameless<strong>

Wynne was in the infirmary when the news came that Anders had returned. No one, as of yet, had discovered how one twelve-year-old boy had managed to both escape the tower and stay hidden from the templars for three days out in the world, but Wynne had no doubt that Greagoir would get it from him eventually. The Knight-Commander had no tolerance for foolhardy escape plans and dreams of freedom.

Speak of the demon, and he shall come. The infirmary double doors burst open and two templars came in, dragging a limply struggling bundle of torn robes and matted blonde hair in with them.

"Senior Enchanter," the taller one began, voice echoing and muffled by his helm. "The Knight-Commander wishes your staff to see to it that this boy gets healed and cleaned up before we escort him back to the apprentice quarters."

"I'll see to it myself, gentlemen." Wynne straightened up from where she'd been rolling bandages and smoothed her skirt. At her gesture, the two armored men dropped their burden and stepped back just out of arm's reach.

The boy looked up to peer at her through limp, messy bangs with wary brown eyes. "You're not gonna hit me, too, are you?"

Wynne raised a brow in surprise and tilted the boy's chin with a finger, hissing as she saw the purpling bruise across the boy's left cheek. "Who did this to you?"

Anders, as he called himself, shrugged. "Bucket-head. They all look the same."

Wynne hummed to herself thoughtfully and walked off, beckoning for the boy to follow her. With a glance at his templar shadows, he followed silently. Wynne led him into a private room and gave the templars a pointed look. Grudgingly, they stationed themselves outside, and she shut the door.

Wynne bustled him over to a cot and sat him down, running a diagnostic spell through him and tutting.

"When's the last time you ate, child?"

There was a pause, and when she looked, Anders looked surprised.

"You actually care?"

"Of course I care. Why wouldn't I?"

Anders was still eying her as if afraid she would suddenly lash out at him. "Nobody cares in this place. The templars just smack me around and the mages all tut and shake their heads at me." He lowered his head, hair hiding his eyes from view. "I hate it here."

Wynne sighed inaudibly and moved to heal the bruises on his face and body. Anders watched her hands with interest.

"You never answered my question."

"Day before yesterday. I stole some fish. And before that, I found some mushrooms in the forest."

"You shouldn't eat strange plants, and stealing is a sin. Well, it isn't if you are starving and have no other option, but you should not have been in that situation in the first place. We'll get you something to eat after we're done here." Wynne sat down heavily on a stool in front of the cot, taking one of his hands in her own. "Now, Anders, was it? I have a serious question for you."

Anders eyed her guardedly. "What kind of question?"

"Was it… Who –" Wynne closed her eyes and reordered her thoughts. "Do you know who gave you those bruises?"

He shook his head. "No. They all wear helmets, and they were pissed when they caught me."

"Watch your language," Wynne snapped out of habit. "Did you report them to the First Enchanter or the Knight-Commander when you got back?"

"No. I shouldn't have to, anyway. They saw the bruise on my face, at least, when they weren't too busy yelling like I'd lit their stupid skirts on fire. What's your point, old lady?" He asked belligerently.

Wynne reached out and grasped his other hand, looking earnestly into his eyes. "My point is that no one has the right to hurt you, Anders. Not even the templars. So if one of them hits you, you should report it to an adult. Will you promise me that, Anders? If you get hurt again, will you come find me?"

Anders looked away uncomfortably. Wynne gave his hands a little shake.

"Promise me?"

"Maybe."

That would have to do for now. Wynne stood up and brushed her skirts free of wrinkles and gestured for Anders to get up as well. He did, pulling up his sleeves to admire his now bruise-free arm.

"Come, Anders. I'll see you to the nearest bathing room and get you some clean clothes."

Anders squinted at her suspiciously. "Why are you being so nice to me? What do you want?"

Wynne's heart gave a little lurch, and she looked away so he couldn't see the emotion on her face. "I don't want anything from you, Anders. It costs me nothing to be kind. Now, let's go get you cleaned up so that you can get something to eat."

That was all the encouragement a growing boy of twelve needed, and soon enough they were off, flanked by the two twitchy templars. She left them there with stern orders not to leave until she came back and marched off to a storeroom. Some shuffling about unearthed an apprentice robe of about the right size and some clean smallclothes. Satisfied, Wynne returned to the bathing room.

"Give these to him, if you please, ser." She handed the clothing to the shorter templar and folded her arms, waiting patiently for the armored man and the boy to emerge from the room. When they did, Anders was red in the face and refused to meet Wynne's eyes. She was puzzled for a moment before it dawned on her. She lifted a hand to cover her smile. Ah, to be young and embarrassed about having one's underwear handled by old ladies.

"Are you ready to go?"

"Senior Enchanter," one of the templars spoke up. "We were ordered to see him cleaned and healed and then escort him immediately to the dorms."

"Did Irving or the Knight-Commander specifically include starvation in his punishment? No? Then I'm taking him to the kitchens and getting him something to eat. You may accompany us, if you wish." With that, she touched Anders' shoulder and guided him to the nearest staircase. After a second, the clank of armor resumed as the templars marched to keep up.

Anders kept quiet for a moment, before he finally voiced what he was thinking. "Who _are _you?"

"Hm?" Wynne looked down at his skeptical face and couldn't help but laugh. "I never introduced myself, did I? I am Senior Enchanter Wynne, head of the Creation and Spirit Healing branches of the tower."

"So when you're a senior enchanter, you get to boss the templars around?"

"No, no, no, child. I do not boss anyone around." She ignored his disbelieving snort. "I am merely a valuable and _well-behaved_ member of the Circle, and that grants me certain liberties that scruffy, runaway apprentices do not have."

Anders huffed rudely. "If you're so important and powerful, why are you still here? If _I_ was a senior enchanter, I'd knock this whole tower down and run off into the Wilds, or become a pirate, or do anything, really, besides sit in this stuffy tower all day."

"It is rather stuffy," she agreed mildly. "But you must understand, Anders, that we are here for our own protection. Out there, in the world, there are people who would like to harm us because they are afraid and do not understand what we can do. Here we are safe to live and study and practice our magic in the sight of the Maker to benefit His children, and the Templar Order exists to keep us safe."

"Keep us from getting away, you mean," Anders grumbled. "I thought, for a minute there, that you might be all right, but you're just like the rest of them. Have you forgotten what the sky looks like?"

"No, I haven't, as a matter of fact. Until a few days ago, I was managing an outbreak of the wasting sickness in Gwaren. When you are a Harrowed mage, and if you keep yourself out of trouble, you will be able to take excursions into the world, as well."

"That's ridiculous! We're people, too, or have you forgotten that? I never did anything to deserve being locked in a tower for the rest of my life."

Wynne sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "You will settle down in time, Anders. Here we are, the kitchen."

She nudged the door open and gestured him and his templars into the warm, well-lit room. Several elves were busily washing the day's dishes, and the hired servants on staff mostly ignored the small group as they continued making preparations for the next day's meals.

"Wait here," Wynne said, heading for the larder. A scullion hastened to her side, smiling nervously and offering to help. Wynne waved him off and dug through the stored food herself, coming out with an extra loaf of that morning's bread, a good-sized wedge of cheese, and several links of smoked sausage.

"You're going to have to use the pump to get some water yourself," she said as she emerged before grinding to a halt.

Anders had managed to wander off in the minutes she was in the larder, though the templars had dogged his heels. The odd trio now stood around something in a shadowed corner of the sleepy kitchen, Anders on his knees and the templars standing with their arms crossed. Wynne crept forward, curiosity winning out over impatience.

Anders sat on his heels, facing slightly away from where Wynne stood. In his lap sat a large, muscular cat in the prime of its youth, dangerous yellow eyes slitted with pleasure as the boy moved his hand back and forth in rhythmic strokes through its fur. Occasionally his other hand would snake around to tickle and pet at the cat's chin and ears, earning him purrs that rivaled the worst Rivaini earthquakes. Even more incongruous than the feral-looking beast sitting tamely in the hands of a young boy was the expression on Anders' face.

Anders was focused totally and wholly on the animal in his lap. Though his brow was furrowed slightly in concentration, his mouth was stretched into the first genuine smile she'd seen on his face. It instantly took several years of bitterness and worry off of his face, and he looked like a twelve-year-old again, instead of a grim fugitive. It was a relief to see.

Wynne hated to interrupt the scene, but they couldn't stay in the kitchen all night. She cleared her throat.

"I have food."

Anders looked up, still caught in the simple joy of holding the cat. "Oh, good. Say," he turned and hailed the nearest servant. "What's this cat's name?"

The elf paused in the act of scrubbing a countertop just long enough to shrug. "He's just the mouser. Mean bastard."

"You're not mean, are you?" Anders asked the cat. "And you can't go through life without a name. That's just unfair. How about I give you a name? Would you like that?"

The cat meowed, which Anders seemed to take as affirmative communication.

"Excellent. I shall call you…" He hesitated for a moment, face scrunched in thought. "Mr. Wiggums."

Wynne exchanged a dubious look with the templars through the slits in their helmets.

"Mr. … Wiggums?" Wynne asked.

Anders nodded. "Yes, it's perfect. All right, Mr. Wiggums. I have to go eat now, but I will see you very soon, okay?" The cat meowed again as Anders stood, carefully depositing the mouser on the floor before brushing at the fine carpet of cat hair now adorning his robes. "Dinner, Wynne?"

"Here." She handed him the bundle of food and led him to a stool, where he began tucking into it with all the unbridled enthusiasm of a teenaged boy. Carefully, she sat on another stool next to him. "Speaking of names, what is yours?"

Anders looked up to give her an arched eyebrow. "You're really going to try that? Really, you people have done almost nothing else since I got here. 'What is your real name, Anders? What kind of magic do you use, Anders? Why do you hate your life so much, Anders?' Like I'm going to confide in you lot."

"Well, you can't blame us for wanting to get to know you better, can you?"

"Actually, I can. Why is it you assume, for instance, that Anders isn't my real name?"

"Well, why would a woman from the Anderfels name her son Anders? That's ridiculous."

"Maybe she was homesick." Anders shrugged unconcernedly. "And even if it's not my real name, it is what I am, at least. The poor Anders locked away in a Ferelden tower, oppressed by bearded old men and old ladies with sausage."

"I hardly think feeding you is a form of oppression." Wynne unsuccessfully fought a smile.

"You have a point. Unless it is, in which case, yes, continue to oppress me, please."

"You are a strange child." Wynne shook her head bemusedly. "I still don't see why you can't tell us your name. You are setting an unfortunate precedent. Next thing you know, we will start naming new apprentices things like 'elf,' 'brunette,' or 'Rivaini.'"

"Then you'll be racists _and_ Maker-cursed mages. Bad combination." The shadow of a templar fell over him, and Anders looked down, frowning. "Well, it looks like I've finished eating."

"Time to go back to the dormitories, apprentice. Your punishment starts tomorrow after breakfast." The templar reached down and dragged him to his feet.

"Floor-scrubbing. I can't wait." Anders rolled his eyes.

"Anders," Wynne felt herself compelled to say. "Do try to follow the rules, please? I would hate to see you make yourself miserable for no good reason."

Anders smiled, and it was a hard, brittle thing that had no place on such a young face. "Oh, dear Wynnie, I always have a good reason."

He'd marched off before she could begin to formulate a reply. Wynne sighed and went to poke through the larder, claiming the last remnants of a pie for herself. She sat down to eat it, tuning out the quiet bustle of the scullions as she allowed her thoughts to drift. Tomorrow, she would talk to Irving about the boy and harangue Greagoir about controlling his templars, but for tonight, she sat still, remembering the smile on Anders' face as he pet the cat and a girl so like him who'd thought to flaunt the rules of the Circle. She'd seen how that had turned out. She could only hope that Anders' path wouldn't be as mired in misery as hers.


	3. Healer

**Author's Notes:** I'll start by saying I meant to upload this on Thursday, but this has been a rather busy week. I've spent the last several nights watching the first season of Downton Abbey with my mom in preparation for the new season on Sunday, and during the day, I haven't had time to write. This chapter was finished midnight last night/this morning. And I have to actually dismiss my anxieties and learn to drive? Ridiculous!

So, this isn't the most awesome chapter ever. It's a little rushed, bunch of information clumped together, hopefully the next one will flow better. Cross your fingers, cross yourself, whatever you wish.

No chapter warnings today, unless you count fireballs as warning-worthy.

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><p><strong>Healer<strong>

"He seems to be settling in well."

"Who?" Wynne didn't look up from where she was drizzling honey into her tea. Irving was always spouting cryptic statements, and she found the best way to deal with that tendency was to ignore it.

"Anders. It's been nearly a month, and we haven't found him smuggling himself out in a turnip box again. I would call that a success."

Wynne hummed noncommittally. "Really? What brings you to mention this now?"

She could see Irving's eyes twinkling with mischief and affection as he looked down on her from the corner of her vision. "Ah, Wynne, you can't lie to me. You've taken a special interest in the boy."

"I directed him to the kitchens and fed him _once_, a month ago. I've scarcely even seen him since." Wynne looked up and rolled her eyes. "That hardly counts as a special interest. And sit down; your tea will get cold."

Irving did, but his bushy new beard couldn't hide the smirk on his face as he sat. "You never complain when I slip in a status update on the boy when we have our talks, and you nearly set Greagoir's ear on fire, ranting as you did about how he needs to 'leash his bloody subordinates' and that 'assaulting children is the highest crime in the Maker's eyes.' It was beautiful to watch."

Wynne colored slightly, but kept the frown on her face. "You can't call worrying about a disturbing trend of physical abuse in the templar ranks favoritism. I would have stood up for anyone. I don't care how annoying the child can be – violence is not a proper response."

Irving sobered some. "You are entirely correct, but you know how… zealous some of them can be. Even Greagoir has trouble keeping them all in line all the time. Not to say that I condone their behavior – I just understand that things are never that simple."

Wynne took another sip of tea to avoid having to respond. Irving had heard all of her tirades before, after all. She decided to change the subject.

"So, has no one been able to pinpoint Anders' specialty yet?"

Irving's sober face cracked. "Not yet. I don't think I've ever seen such an uncooperative student. Fortunately, he seems to like reading lessons, so that's something."

"With Anders, something is better than nothing," Wynne agreed. "Well, you old gossip, what's the latest torrid romance?"

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><p>Wynne did, in fact, have a special interest in the boy.<p>

She would deny it to the end, but something prompted her to check up on him and make sure he was settling in well. She would make a point of talking to his teachers and quietly directing their conversations until they mentioned him. The kitchen elves were all too happy to speak about the funny apprentice who kept sneaking down at odd hours to play with the tower cats, Mr. Wiggums following behind him like a watchdog. Irving also helped, making sure to know how his little flight risk was doing and giving her whatever interesting tidbits he picked up.

Wynne was relieved to see that Anders had settled down, at least a little. Some of the apprentices regarded him as something of a hero for his successful escape and his belligerent attitude, though many regarded him as too much of a risk by association to talk to. Still, he'd become the unofficial ringleader of a small group of apprentices.

First, there was Alim Surana, the quiet little elven boy who nonetheless had a vicious touch with entropic hexes. Anders had apparently knocked his bowl of porridge over one morning, started a passive-aggressive verbal battle, and then punched him in the face. They'd been friends ever since. Then Solona Amell, years younger but stubborn enough to march over one day during lunch, had decided to tell Anders exactly how much of an idiot she thought he was, dragging her shadow, Jowan, along with her. The older apprentice Niall finished the assembly with his often-rebuffed attempts to temper Anders' wild diatribes and constant state of rebellion.

All in all, Wynne was satisfied that, at the very least, Anders wasn't left completely alone with only his bitterness and escape plans for company.

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><p>Anders discovered his specialization completely by accident.<p>

Wynne was in the library when it happened, reading a treatise on Rivaini shamans. One of the enchanters was holding a primal class several bookshelves over, supposedly only in theory, though accidents sometimes happened. If she listened, she could hear the lecture herself.

"…want you to breathe slowly, in and out, and find that well inside of yourself, that connection to the core of the earth. Feel the energies there? Now, if you stir it, just a little, you will feel from where we draw fire – wait, Jowan, what are you –"

Orange light bloomed from across the library, and Wynne's book slammed to the ground as she and several of the Harrowed mages leapt to their feet. Even as she rushed towards the commotion, she could hear an awful wail of agony and fear.

The instructor had turned his back on his charges to quench any errant flames and keep them back from the bookcases. A young apprentice – Jowan, she recognized – lay spread on the ground behind him, his robes from the waist down shredded and smoldering from the out of control surge of fire magic he'd released. His exposed legs were blistered and scorched, and he seemed to be in shock, breaths coming out in keening huffs as his eyes rolled wildly. Wynne immediately rushed towards him.

Time seemed to slow down. As she watched, Anders, who had been standing a few feet from poor Jowan, leapt forward, landing in a crouch next to him. His eyes looked almost unfocused as he thrust his hands out and _pushed_ with his magic, lighting the room with a bright blue glow of healing. Before everyone, the skin and flesh of Jowan's legs knit itself back together, becoming smooth and pale and unmarked once more.

More than that, Wynne could feel something beyond the Veil _ripple_ like a quiet laugh or a small sigh.

The glow dimmed and vanished, and Anders slumped forward bonelessly onto the stone floor. Jowan was also silent, either fainted from pain and shock or exhausted from such a quick and massive healing. Wynne broke free from her reverie first, snapping her fingers and barking orders to the others.

"You! Carry Jowan to the infirmary and tell one of the healers to examine him. You! Take Anders and put him in a cot near my office. And _you_," she rounded on the unfortunate enchanter, who was determinedly not meeting her stare. "Get these apprentices back to the dorms and report to my office. I would have words with you about the way you reacted to the crisis. Protecting the bookshelves before checking on your student, really…"

Satisfied that the situation was under control, Wynne followed the mages and the two unconscious apprentices back to the infirmary.

* * *

><p>It was nearly dinnertime when Anders finally awoke from the exhausted sleep he'd fallen into. Wynne was by his bedside with a mug of water at the first sign of waking.<p>

"Wynne?" Anders groaned, massaging his forehead with a grimace. He gratefully took the mug from her hands and gulped half of it down before he stopped himself.

"Anders," she replied. "How are you feeling?"

"My head feels like I got hit with a hammer…" Anders' eyes widened, and he nearly shot out of bed. "Where's Jowan?"

Wynne gently pushed him back until he was lying down again. "Don't worry about Jowan. He's healed up and right as rain again, thanks to you."

"Thanks to…? You mean I actually did it? It wasn't just a dream?" Anders looked down at his hands, an awed expression on his face.

"Indeed. It was certainly one of the most… unique specialization manifestations I've ever witnessed. They aren't usually that dramatic, I assure you." Wynne sat down on the edge of the bed and gave him a wide smile. "I'm very proud of you, Anders. You did a remarkable job for your first, instinctual healing."

"It wasn't my –" Anders began before halting. Then he sighed impatiently. "Well, _balls_. It wasn't my first healing. I'd healed small things before. _Meine mutter_ cut her hand once, and I healed it. And the barn cat... But this time was different. It felt like…"

"…Something was guiding you?" Wynne's smile widened even more at his startled look. "I have wonderful news for you, Anders. I was in the library when you helped Jowan, and I felt _something_. It's too early, yet, for us to tell what it was, but I'm sure now that it was real."

"What are you talking about?"

"I believe – no, I'm positive that you are a spirit healer, child."

Anders stared at her uncomprehendingly. "A spirit healer? Is that… special, somehow?"

"Very special." Wynne took his hand in hers. "You see, Anders, many mages find their specialization in creation, which includes the healing arts. Healers are no more rare or prevalent than any other school of magic. What makes spirit healers different is that we, for I am a spirit healer as well, may call upon a denizen of the Fade to lend us strength and aid in healing. That is how you healed Jowan in the library today though you lacked the strength and training to do it under normal circumstances. A spirit heard your need and leant you its aid."

"Spirits? From the Fade?" Anders' eyes were impossibly wide. "Like demons? The whispers I hear in my sleep?"

"Shush, child, and do not panic. There is a difference between demons and spirits, which we will discuss in time. I will also teach you to guard your dreams, for spirit healers are much desired as pathways into this world. In time, you will be able to discern demon from spirit and knowingly draw strength from a single spirit. But those are lessons for another time. Now, I am sure you would like to come with me to dinner. Healing usually leaves the body a bit drained."

As if to punctuate her words, Anders' stomach let out a loud growl as she finished speaking. She smiled at him and helped him up.

"This is…"

"A lot to absorb, and I don't expect you to have an opinion yet. It has been an eventful day already."

They walked from the infirmary together, Wynne humming serenely under her breath.

"So, does this mean I'm a spirit healer apprentice now?" Anders finally asked.

"Well, you will still have to go to your other lessons, but you will have an enchanter to act as your advisor and instructor who will give you additional lessons."

"Like you?"

Wynne laughed. "I'm a senior enchanter; I'm not required to take on apprentices. Oh, I'll find you someone good, don't worry. I may even instruct you a bit myself, if I think you'll pay attention."

Anders gave her a measuring look. "Well, I could do worse, I suppose."

Wynne snorted as they entered the bustling dining hall. "Flattery will get you nowhere, young man."

"It can't hurt to try." With one last cheeky grin, Anders skipped off to go sit at an already-crowded table, putting on a great show of bragging for his friends and deftly ignoring the attempts of a very pale and jittery Jowan to thank him.

* * *

><p>"You look like the cat who got into the cream."<p>

Wynne arched an eyebrow over her hand of cards, giving Irving her best deadpan expression. She and a few other senior enchanters were seated around an oblong card table in Irving's study, a generous name for the cozy little room in his quarters dominated by a large fireplace, worn couch, looming bookshelves, and well-stocked cabinet of wines and cheeses. Irving made a point of hosting a weekly bridge game, though it usually devolved into the less-genteel games of Wicked Grace and Diamondback before long.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"Oh, don't play that card," Senior Enchanter Torrin snorted. "You know exactly what he means. You've been drooling after the boy since he got here."

"I have _not_. I'm just pleased to have another healer, and a possible spirit healer at that." Wynne took a demure sip of her wine. "Goodness knows we're rare enough with the rest of you lobbing fireballs everywhere as if it's actually useful."

The primal head chortled. "Sourpuss. You're just sore because you can barely light a candle with magic."

Wynne lobbed a piece of cheese at him without breaking her serene face.

"Hmph, I say good riddance," Senior Enchanter Magdalene spoke up from her corner. "That Anders is nothing but trouble, and has a smart mouth to boot. I'm just glad he's not _my_ problem."

"Nonetheless," Uldred said smoothly. "I'll see him a Libertarian before long."

"Oh, don't encourage him," Torrin snapped.

Irving waved his hands in a placating gesture. "Now, now, let's leave the politics out of my study, thank you." The two enchanters exchanged polite, vicious smiles across the card table and then pointedly ignored each other. "Good children. Wynne, we're all very pleased that you got the apprentice you wanted. Be gentle and try not to let him break out of the tower again."

"So it'll be my fault if he does?" Wynne raised a pointed eyebrow.

"Oh, no, of course not," Irving backpedaled. "So, I fold. Anyone else?"

Wynne smiled and lay down her winning hand. Oh, yes, this was going to be fun.


	4. Magelings

**Author's Notes: **Ugh, this week, two weeks?, has been ridiculous. Sorry I couldn't find time to reply to reviews last chapter, but know that they were much appreciated all the same. Here is an update instead? *feels suddenly like a cat offering up a half-eaten bird*

This chapter is mostly housework, setting up settings and ideas for further use down the line, that kind of thing. Not too amazing, and I swear, all this trust-building relationshipy fluff is giving me heartburn. I know it's important to establish this mentor relationship early on, but, still, my brain wants to jump directly to the more action-y, angsty sequel. Not enough blood and guts and tears in the twelve-year-old chapters. Working on it... But I don't see myself writing many fluff stories and romances in the future.

Anyway, enjoy. Next chapter will probably be only about as short as this one, but it should be more interesting.

Also, the character Keili is really depressing.

* * *

><p><strong>Magelings<strong>

Wynne couldn't remember when she'd started this habit.

She'd always been the unofficial sponsor of young apprentices. She wasn't stupid – she knew the names they called her behind her back, her reputation as a harpy and a lecturer, but she didn't know anyone to protest these occasional night rounds she went through.

Wynne exchanged a nod with the group of night-shift templars standing in the hall outside of the darkened apprentice barracks. These men were hand-picked by Greagoir to be alert, intelligent, and discerning, for never was the risk of possession more high than when the apprentices, with their raw power and inexperience, slept. Greagoir just made sure that the men on the night watch wouldn't jump to impale them at the slightest twitch or cry in the night. They knew Wynne by sight and seemed to have come to terms with her continual presence, and she pretended not to hear their nickname for her. "Old mother hen," they called her behind her back, and she'd yet to decide whether it was mockery or not.

Wynne slipped first into the female dormitory, passing through the rows of bunk beds. The occasional muted wisp betrayed unquiet sleepers, and she made a point of sending quiet pulses of soothing mana out from her trailing hands, lulling the girls into more peaceful corners of the Fade. Wynne smiled when she noticed that some of the very youngest girls, barely into childhood, had latched onto some of the older teens, and they slept curled up in the narrow bunks together.

Soft whimpers drew her attention, and Wynne sighed a little louder than she meant to when she located the source. Young Keili was one of the more troubled apprentices she'd run into in her years as unofficial apprentice sponsor. The girl spent most of her free time in the Chantry praying to the Maker for deliverance from her own magic, and when she slept, rarely were demons the source of her nightmares. Wynne wasn't sure what to do with her, for none of her repeated assurances had broken through the layer of fear and shame she'd built around herself. She couldn't help but wonder if Tranquility would be a kindness for this one.

Wynne shook that thought from her head. She couldn't afford to believe that even one apprentice was beyond help. Grimly, she continued on, controlled bursts of oddly mint-flavored mana quieting the rest of them as she moved on to the boys' dorm. She had to smile when she found the corner that Anders' group had claimed for themselves. Generous Niall twitched in the bottom bunk he'd honorably taken, giving up his right as oldest to the top bunk in favor of Jowan. Alim slept as still and peacefully as the dead. In the bunk above him, Anders turned fitfully, murmuring something in some tongue Wynne couldn't make out, and clutching an embroidered pillow to his chest. She supposed it was Anders. Anders speaking Anders, she thought with something akin to a grimace. Of all the names for the boy to pick.

She patted his hair with a glowing hand and moved on, pleased to hear him quiet as she stepped away. There were beds to go and children to quiet before she could join them in the Fade.

Wynne marched on, the sole warden of their dreams.

* * *

><p><em>Thump.<em>

Wynne glanced at the heavy tome now resting in the center of her desk and trailed her gaze up to the bristling apprentice who'd put it there. She raised an eyebrow and smirked.

"Well, good afternoon to you, too, Anders."

Anders huffed and cross his arms, scowling in a rather petulant way. "This is ridiculous! You can't expect me to read this."

Wynne turned the tome to read the title. "_Anatomy of the Known Races: Humans, Elves, and Dwarves in Detail._ I'm afraid I don't understand your problem."

"I'll show you the problem." He threw the book open and flipped to a random page detailing elven facial musculature. His finger stabbed at one of the neat labels. "Like this: ocky-pie-table-frontally?"

"Occipitofrontalis, actually. If that's your best attempt at pronunciation…"

Anders rolled his eyes. "My point is that these words are ridiculous. I swear, if I ever get my hands on the Tevinter who came up with these…"

"Well, you won't, because he's dead." Wynne shut the book and moved it to the side. "What is the problem, Anders? Tell me Enchanter Theold isn't starting you off with muscular systems."

"No," Anders admitted, slouching down into a chair. "He's testing me on skeletal systems right now. The problem is…"

"What?" Wynne frowned as Anders' cheeks reddened, the boy refusing to meet her stare. "Anders, what –"

"I can't read very good, okay?" Anders burst out in a rush. He slumped further in his chair and crossed his arms defensively. "I never learned til I came here. My ma didn't speak any Trade at all, just Anders, and my da couldn't speak much more. Just enough to get hired on places. None of us farm kids could – that was for nobles and Chantry brats and scholars."

"Anders," Wynne said as gently as she could. "That's nothing to be embarrassed about. Most apprentices need to learn once they come here, That's why we have reading lessons."

"Yeah, but they're all younger than me. It's _stupid,_" he mumbled.

"It is not stupid to learn a skill," Wynne admonished. "You came to the tower later than most, that's all. You don't have to be good at everything immediately, and you certainly don't have to try to impress me, or anyone. All you can do is your best. Besides, aren't most of your friends younger than you, anyway? That Amell girl can't be more than eight, at most."

Anders' lips quirked. "Seven and ten months, she'd tell you. She's _smart_, though. Not like some." He trailed off, and his grin widened. "Wait, you know who my friends are? Wynne, I didn't know you cared."

Wynne put on her best card face. "Of course I care, but don't read too much into it, young man."

"Oh, no, this is too much to pass up. Does this mean I can call you Granny?"

"You most certainly will _not_, if you value your limbs where they are."

Anders raised his hands in surrender. "If you say so, Granny Wynne." He deftly dodged the tiny arcane bolt she threw at him. "Wow, that was cool. You actually cast at your students?"

"Only the stubborn apprentices who bring it down on themselves." Wynne harrumphed and crossed her arms. "I take it you're finished here?"

"I guess so." Anders stuffed the tome into his carrysack.

"One thing, Anders?" Wynne hesitated under that guarded amber stare. "Why did you come to _me_ with your… reading issues? Enchanter Theold is your mentor. The topic is a bit more appropriate for him."

Anders shrugged, affecting an air of nonchalance that nonetheless felt more weighted than it seemed. "Well, you did say that you'd be willing to instruct me if I paid attention, didn't you?"

Wynne smiled, breaking the tension that had built up. "Why yes, I did. I don't mind helping you on occasion, Anders, but in the future, do try asking Enchanter Theold before consulting me? I'm a busy woman, and I can't be accused of favoritism."

"Maker forbid," Anders said dryly. "I'll try, Wynne, but if he asks me to recite the bones in the hand out loud one more time… I won't be responsible for my actions."

She rolled her eyes. "I'm sure you'll survive somehow. Theold is a patient man. You should go study, and it's Senior Enchanter Wynne to you, apprentice."

Anders waved that last comment off, walking off to her office door with a jaunty step. Near the threshold he stopped, seeming to debate with himself, before he turned around.

"You should go down to the kitchens more. Mr. Wiggums misses you."

With that last cryptic statement, Anders bounded off.

Wynne sat blinking for a moment before turning back to her paperwork. She was almost certain that Mr. Wiggums couldn't care less whether she visited him or not, so… She smiled. Ah, the boy was asking to see her more often? She was touched, really. With the amount of respect he usually gave authority figures, she counted herself lucky to have won his trust, if not some sort of fledgling mentor relationship. She resolved to find time for more trips to the kitchen in the future.


	5. Interlude One

**Author's Notes:** Bah, got this written. That is all I can claim. This week has also been insane. Sick almost-three year olds? Not fun. I hate posting as I finish, but I've just enrolled in five online courses and it's been a hectic week and I know you guys won't flay me if I don't post every almost-Thursday. (Almost-Thursday is an official Contort day of the week here at headquarters) So, accept this until I can work out an actual schedule for day-to-day life and homework.

Anyway, I realized early on that telling this just from Wynne's point of view was going to be really limited. That was kind of the appeal, but things like Anders' group's dynamics and his relationship with Karl were just not things that Wynne would personally witness or take note on. And I couldn't just throw a paragraph of 'Hey, these are the people he knows' without some exploration. And then Alim Surana turned into my newest Origin, Fain Surana, the sarcastic, exceedingly odd mage with an obsession with dead things and entropy in general. *shrug* It happens, I guess. And I have to also say that I love Niall. It's unfair that in any origin other than a mage, you only see him under the sloth demon's influence, but c'mon, the dude escaped the board meeting of doom to find the Litany and single-handedly save the tower. Or attempted to, anyway. Anyone that badass is good in my books.

**Chapter warnings: **Mentions of child abuse and off-screen violence. Also, angsty, melodramatic children in a small room.

* * *

><p>Interlude One<p>

"I'm wasting too much time here."

Alim didn't even look up from whatever project he had in his grasp down there on the floor. Niall, ever considerate, did, marking his place in whatever musty old text he'd dredged up so that he could pay attention.

"What do you mean, Anders?"

Solona snorted, marching into the study room with Jowan in tow. "What do you think, Niall? He's talking about escaping. Again."

Jowan shushed them, glancing around nervously. "Not so loud, Lona! The templars will hear."

"The nearest one is halfway down the hall. Besides, it's not like he can do it again. No one escapes from the tower twice."

Anders shot her a glare and kept pacing, his arms full of cat as Mr. Wiggums rumbled against his chest. "There've been plenty of escapes. The trick is _staying_ escaped."

"Which you failed at spectacularly, last time," Alim commented, still not looking up.

Anders tried to throw his hands up in exasperation, but remembered Mr. Wiggums just in time. Instead he groaned loudly. "One time does not make a trend. You try blending in when you're just a kid with no coin and soggy robes that scream 'I'm an apostate!' to anyone who looks. And they do look, when you're eying their wares like a starving animal because not a single book in this damned place tells you local edible flora. I suspect a conspiracy."

"You always suspect a conspiracy," Niall put in.

"That does sound like something they'd do, though," Jowan said, squirming around on the couch next to Niall to find a comfortable spot. "Just to make it harder for us to get out."

"I can't say that I see why you lot are so interested in escaping, anyway," Alim said as he scooted up onto his knees from his former position laid out on his belly. He kept his hands cupped around whatever he'd found under the couch. "I mean, I appreciate your efforts and all, but I don't see the point."

"Don't you want to get out of here?" Solona asked in her serious little girl voice.

Alim shrugged. "Not right away, I guess. The tower sucks, don't get me wrong, but what's the point in escaping now?"

"What do you mean, 'what's the point?'" Anders stepped closer to his friend. "You don't want freedom?"

"It's all right for you humans, but you might forget what it's like out there for elves." Alim's usual mask of serene flippancy cracked a little, and everyone in the room could hear the resentment in the thirteen-year-old's voice. "You've basically got two choices: join the Dalish and be hated wherever you go, or stay in a city and be treated like dirt. I can still remember what it was like, at least a little. At least here in the tower, people don't look at my ears first. So no, I'm not keen on escaping until I've learned all that I can from these books. Then maybe I can do something important, like free all the mages."

Solona was nodding along enthusiastically. "See, Anders? Alim's right. The best thing we can do is wait until we're Harrowed, then _make_ them change the rules."

"That'll take forever, though," Jowan complained.

"You just have to wait until I'm the First Enchanter."

"That'll take even longer! You can't be First Enchanter until you're ancient. Besides, it's not as if they'd let a _girl_ be First."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Children, please," Niall groaned, probably wondering for the hundredth time what compelled him to spend his free time with a bunch of kids.

Anders finally spoke from where he'd been pacing the room once more, his face scrunched in thought. "You have a point… all of you, but I don't think you understand. I _can't_ stay here anymore than I can just decide to stop breathing. This place, being trapped here… it's killing me. It's killing all of us, and you just can't see it."

"It's… not so bad, Anders," Solona said weakly.

"Yes, it is," Alim of all people spoke up. His voice had that sly tone he got whenever he was trying not to laugh at something that was definitely _not funny_. "Why don't you show them your arm?"

"Show us what?" Niall asked immediately, shooting to his feet.

"It's nothing!" Anders clutched Mr. Wiggums tighter to his chest. "Alim's just being an arse again, that's all."

"Anders," Niall said, suddenly appearing as authoritative as a seventeen-year-old could. "Put the cat down and let me see."

"No, and you can't make me. I'm not – Mr. Wiggums, no!"

The cat, who'd put up with Anders' increased agitation with surprising patience, had wriggled free from his arms and leapt for Alim. Or, more specifically, for whatever was in Alim's hands, which gave a shrill squeak. The elf threw his hands up to shield his face from the cat's claws, sending it tumbling through the air to land with a thump and a scurry out the door. Mr. Wiggums streaked after it with no small amount of glee.

Silence descended on the group. Solona's giggle was the first to break it.

"Oh my – was that a _mouse_?" She covered her face with her hands and doubled over until she was wheezing with laughter.

"What in the world did you have that for?" Niall crossed his arms, caught between amusement and the authoritative position he'd had previously.

"Entropy practice." Alim looked sheepish. "I needed to practice my drains, and there's only so much you can do in the classroom with the templars watching. They _hate_ entropy – probably even more than primal."

Anders shot a glare at his friend. "So you caught it to drain its life repeatedly until it died? That's sick."

"Oh, like cutting yourself to practice healing is any better?"

"I haven't even started that yet."

"But you will. That's even sicker, and the templars will think you're a maleficar."

"They know it's just an exercise."

"Still, that's sick."

"Entropy freak!"

"Healer nancy!"

"I can't believe you –"

"What's going on in here?"

Everyone froze as the echoing voice boomed through that slitted helmet. A templar clanked into the doorway, his posture wary.

"Nothing, ser," Niall said smoothly. "We were just having a discussion on the relative merits of the four schools of magic. These two can't see eye to eye on it."

"I see." That featureless helm turned to regard them all in turn. "I just saw a cat run out of here and heard raised voices. You aren't casting in the study lounges, are you?"

"No, ser," said Alim.

"Good." The templar backed up with the usual cacophony of plate armor noises and folded his arms. "Now you're all a bit young for any fooling around, but you keep quiet in here, and don't let me catch you breaking any rules, or it's laundry duty for the lot of you. Understand?"

Satisfied with the meek chorus of 'yes, sers' he received, the templar clattered off back to his post down the hall.

The collective sigh of relief nearly flipped the pages of Niall's discarded textbook.

"Um, I have to ask," Jowan said rather timidly. "What did he mean by 'fooling around?' He said it like it's a bad thing."

Niall groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. Anders and Alim, just old enough to catch the innuendo but young enough not to really understand, scrunched up their faces in disgust.

"I'll tell you when you're Harrowed," Niall promised and hastily turned his attention back to Anders. "Anders, you're bleeding. Let me see."

Anders tried feebly to pull away, but Niall dragged his arm into better light.

"Mr. Wiggums scratched me when he went after the mouse," he explained, looking down at the red lines on his hands. "I think I know the theory of how to heal them, but Theold told me I could make some horrid mistake and cripple myself if I try to heal without him right now."

"Enchanter Theold is right. I'll patch it up and make sure they're not infected, but it won't be as pretty as one of the Creation mages could do it. Want to go to the infirmary?"

Anders shook his head, clenching his jaw.

Niall sighed and glared at the others until they backed off a little, giving the illusion of privacy. "Anders, I'll heal the scratches, but only if you let me see your arm. What was Alim talking about?"

Anders kept silent for several long seconds before he turned his glare on the elf. "Traitor."

"It's for your own good," Alim said placidly. "You'd never have taken it to Enchanter Wynne."

Taking that as permission, Niall drew back his left sleeve.

Solona gasped out loud. "Anders, what did you do?"

Halfway up his forearm, a bruise the size of an adult male's hand marred the white skin there. They could clearly make out four fingers and a thumb in reddish purple.

"I was running in the halls and I ran into the wrong templar." Anders tried to play it off casually, but his eyes darted around like a trapped animal's under their combined scrutiny.

"Who was it?" Jowan asked, his already sallow skin paling further.

"I don't know – they all wear helmets. Anyway, I ran into him and he dragged me out of the way and yelled at me a bit. Stupid blighters don't know they're own strength."

Niall pressed his lips together and cast some general healing spells, the cuts slowly closing and the bruises fading to a yellowed green as he passed his hands over. "Alim, is that what happened?"

"Yep."

"Well, shit." Niall stepped back and pulled Anders' sleeve back down. "You crazy kid… When are you going to stop drawing attention to yourself?"

"When I stop having to worry that anything I do or say will be punished."

The tension in the room was thick enough to spread on toast. Jowan glanced nervously between the two older boys, curling up in on himself on the couch. Alim leaned against the wall and crossed his arms, his default smirk in place despite the electric sizzle of upset mages.

Solona broke it by launching herself at Anders, earning herself an 'oof!' and a bemused smile.

"Don't fight," she begged. "Please don't fight! It's bad enough that the templars keep hurting you; you don't need to fight with Niall, too!" The girl was close to tears.

"We're not fighting," Anders said calmly, pulling her away to set her back on her chair. "Niall's just being overprotective."

"I'm not overprotective if you keep coming back to us with new bruises every other day." Niall folded his arms stubbornly.

"Look, I know what you guys are thinking." Anders turned to he could look at each of them in turn. "I'm not running away because the bucket-heads kick me around all the time, okay? My own da did that enough that it's really not a big deal." He glared around as if daring them to disagree.

Poor Jowan, whose only memories of his home before the tower were of fists and yelling and inflammatory verses from the Chant of Light, paled even further. Anders felt bad about bringing that up again, but he plowed on anyway.

"I'm getting out of here because I didn't do anything wrong. None of us did. All that happened was that we were born, then we made some lights or set something on fire or healed someone and then bam! Locked in a tower for the rest of our lives unless they have a use for us and let us out with a squad of templars on our back. It's _wrong_, and I'm not sticking around long enough to turn into Irving. I'll go to the Void first."

"Careful what you wish for," Alim laughed.

"Just don't do anything stupid." Niall sighed dramatically and flopped back onto the couch. "If you're even capable of non-stupid acts."

"Oh, don't worry about me." Anders ruffled Solona and Jowan's hair as he breezed by them to shoulder his carrysack. "I have a daily ration of stupid, and I've used it up for today."

"Where are you off to?" Alim asked, attention already wandering to the cobwebs in the corner – probably in search of some spiders to drain and hex in his free time.

"Kitchens. Got to make sure Wiggums got back safe. See you!"

Anders trotted off, whistling a jaunty tune. His friends watched him disappear around the corner before they slowly turned back to their books.

"I've never seen someone shift moods so quickly," Niall grumbled.

Alim's hand darted out, snagging a fat spider. He smiled. "He's going to do something stupid."

Two days later, the templars caught Anders unscrewing one of the lower windowpanes in the middle of the night.


	6. Choice

**Author's Notes: **Another Thursday (I swear, I'm going to get this as a weekly update someday!), another chapter. In which there's always something dramatic going on in the Tower, and, having played through the mage origin again recently, I realize how rational and quietly paranoid my Greagoir is compared to the Greagoir we see in-game. Seriously, he's all EVIL MAGES ARE EVIL YOU SUCK BLAH RAWR GARBGHLE BLOOD MAGIC **CONTROOOOOOL**! haha, you get my point.

A note about Theold: he's an original character, yes, bane of all evil. Anders needed a mentor, and Wynne couldn't do it with the position I put her in. Thus, Theold, the thirty-something year old healer. He's not a spirit healer, but he's teaching Anders the basics of Creation magic and putting up with his John Bender-esque approach to male authority figures. He's a former student of Wynne, and, physically, I picture him with rather mousy brown hair in a subtle comb over to hide the male pattern baldness, and a bit of a paunch from sitting around the tower snacking all day. A decent man who never did get to live out his naughty schoolmarm fantasies with his favorite spirit healer.

**Chapter Warning:** People doing mean shit to kids, but not physically hurting them.

*PS: Glad I checked this over before posting. I nearly gave you the chapter summary and title for next time. ;P

* * *

><p><strong>Choice<strong>

Greagoir managed to keep her from seeing him for almost an entire day.

By the time she was able to slip away from _but, Enchanter, the Knight-Commander says that he __**must**__ have these by two o'clock_ and _oh, but you __**must**__ see to Sweeney's cough __**personally**__, he __**insists**_, Wynne was prepared to stage a miniature Exalted March on the tower, complete with ballistae and siege engines. Luckily Theold found her just as she was making ready to wage war.

"He's in the apprentice dorms," he stated upon entering her office.

"Anders?"

"Yes." Theold nodded seriously. "I've just been to see him."

"Is he –"

"He's fine, Wynne." Theold gave her a lopsided smile. He really was rather handsome, Wynne thought in some detached corner of her mind, if only his hair weren't so thin at the top. "They didn't hurt him, but Greagoir took him down to the lower levels."

"You mean to the dungeons? The old Tevinter torture chambers?" She could feel her eyes widening almost painfully and her breath catching. "What was he trying to do - frighten the boy to death?"

"I think that was the general idea, yes." He reached out and patted her awkwardly on the arm. "Don't worry, Wynne. He'll be right as rain soon enough. Hopefully this little excursion cured him of his restless feet."

"That's hardly a relief," Wynne snapped. "Tell me Greagoir didn't show him the rusty manacles and the whipping posts and the thumbscrews. He did, didn't he? I'm going to kill that man."

The last was said as she stormed out into the infirmary proper. The templars stationed there all whipped their heads in her direction, seeming to judge whether a Smite was necessary or not.

"I'm speaking figuratively, you stuffed shirts!" Wynne spared a glance at her bemused mage companion. "Thank you, Theold. I will go see your apprentice now. If you have time, can you go tell the Knight-Commander that I'd like a word with him later this evening?"

"I'll tell him that you're on the warpath. Just, uh, you know you have lightning in your hair, right?"

"Oh. I do. Thank you." Wynne stopped and took a deep breath, letting go of the surging mana that was leaking out of her pores. The templars relaxed marginally, so she must have stopped looking like a miniature tempest. She smoothed her hair down and marched off towards the stairs.

It wasn't yet dinnertime, so there were more than a few apprentices scattered throughout the dorms after classes. Wynne forced down a smile as some of the male apprentices gave out surprised yelps when she strode into their dormitory, some ducking behind blankets or into the lavatory to hide while they changed into clean robes. Normally, she wouldn't come into the apprentice dorms during the day, but this was a special circumstance.

Her heart plummeted, but she wasn't surprised to see that Anders' bed was empty. Niall was waiting for her, however.

"Senior Enchanter," he said with a respectful bob of his head. "I knew you'd be coming here, so I waited for you."

"Am I that predictable?"

"Well, no, but everyone knows you like Anders. And he's, uh, well, he's not here."

"I can see that. Where is he, then?"

"He left a few minutes ago. I think he's off to find Mr. Wiggums. That's his cat," he clarified, as if she wouldn't know this detail.

"I've met him, yes." She couldn't help but smile. Niall wasn't a Creation apprentice, but she'd seen him around before. From all accounts, he was a confident spellcaster and an avid historian, but he came undone completely around older women. The poor boy hadn't met her eyes since he'd greeted her. Then again, that might have been on account of her bosom, which Irving, in one of his more drunken rambles, had called 'magnificent.' Years later, she still hadn't let him live that Satinalia down.

She decided to spare him by cutting it short. "I'm sure I know where he's gone, then. Thank you for staying to tell me, Niall."

The boy's blush grew a couple of shades darker. "Ah, uh, y-yeah… It was no trouble, really, Senior Enchanter. Just, uh, go take care of him? He's not talking to anyone."

"I will take care of him. Good evening."

Wynne swept off again, her momentary good humor evaporating the closer she got to the kitchens. Greagoir would be lucky to escape this without his skirt on fire, she vowed.

Mealtimes were hectic in any kitchen she'd entered, and Kinloch Hold's was no exception. Cooks and sculleries dashed about, loading up lifts built into the walls and dragging on pulleys to send the food up to the dining hall, where another team of servants waited to distribute it through the tables. Dinner would be soon, she judged from the level and type of activity she saw.

"Oh, Senior Enchanter!" An elven woman darted over, rubbing her ear from where the head chef had recently yelled too close to it. Wynne couldn't recall her name, but she knew the woman had taken a liking to Anders, if the snacks she gave him and his cat were any indication. "I'm glad you're here. The little scrap's in the corner over there. Something must be the matter, though. He's usually willing to help out a bit, but today he's just staying out of the way and petting Mr. Wig."

"He's had a shock, I believe. I'll take care of it, missus…?"

"Missus? Oh!" The woman flushed with pleasure. "I'm Nelia, ma'am. Just Nelia."

"Thank you, Nelia."

"Oi, knife-ear! Nelly! Get this crock, would ya?"

Nelia jerked to attention, sparing Wynne a grin. "Back to the grind! Thank you, ma'am." She darted off, deftly dodging the half-hearted cuff one of the human servants sent her way.

Wynne shook her head and followed the elf's directions to the corner where Anders had first met Mr. Wiggums. Sure enough he sat there, wedged into a corner with the cat in his lap and an empty mug of tea beside him. Wynne approached cautiously and sat down in front of him, ignoring the creaky protest of her joints as she sat on the warm stone floor by the hearth.

"Hello, Anders."

The boy didn't look up, opting instead to stare at her knees.

Wynne weighed several options before she asked, quietly, "What happened?"

Anders jerked and glanced up to stare at her suspiciously. "Doesn't everybody know?"

She shrugged. "I've heard the rumors, and some of them are rather silly. I don't think you stole the templars' underwear to make chandeliers, for instance. I'm more interested in your side of the story."

Anders cracked a weak smile. "Would you believe me if I said I was just trying to let in a breeze?"

"In the middle of the night? Not really. _Is_ that what happened?"

"No," he admitted begrudgingly. "I was just scouting around, getting a feel for things. The loose windowpane was just a fluke. If I hadn't dropped those screws, the templars would never have heard, and I could've been gone by now."

"Or you could have drowned," Wynne pointed out. "Those windows lead to the lake, Anders. Could you swim to the shore in the dead of night wearing robes? Or would you have stolen a boat? Can you even operate a boat?"

Anders looked away sullenly. "I know, I _know_. It was a spur-of-the moment thing, all right?"

Wynne sighed and pinched her nose. "I just want you to use that mind the Maker gave you. Believe it or not, there are people who would mourn you if you drowned."

Anders brightened a little before his gloom descended once more. His fingers tightened minutely in the cat's fur. "Greagoir wouldn't miss me."

Wynne scowled on reflex. "The Knight-Commander is capable of making poor choices himself. Did he really…?"

"What? Drag me through the dungeons? Show me all sorts of horrifying things while telling me just what they do to bad little apostates who try to live outside the Chantry?" His face was as white as a sheet, and his hands trembled when he loosened them from Mr. Wiggums' fur. "Yes."

"Anders, I'm so-"

"Did you know about them, Wynne?" He looked up and pinned her with those wide, terrified eyes. "That they have _torture chambers_ down there? What… Where in the Void are we living?"

Wynne shrugged helplessly. "Anders, we live in Kinloch Hold, the tower of magi. The Tevinters used it before Orlais took the tower and gave it to the Circle. Before the Imperium, we can only suppose it was made by the Avvar. For now, it's our home, and I can assure you that Greagoir is full of hot air. In all the time he's been our Knight-Commander, I've not seen him torture a single mage. Those rooms and those… instruments… are merely relics of an age long past. We are not Tevinters, and we do not hurt our own."

Anders curled further in on himself, prompting Mr. Wiggums to slide out of his lap. The cat settled down on the warm hearthstones by Wynne instead. "You didn't hear him, Wynne. He was… He would've done it, I think. If he catches me again, he's going to hurt me."

"I won't let him." Wynne surprised herself with the fierceness of that statement. She scooted forward until she sat directly in front of him. "No one is going to hurt you if I have any say in it, Anders. I won't let it happen."

It was a lie, of course. They both knew that the templars were the true authority in the Circle, and with their ability to void a mage's powers in an instant, there was no true hope of standing up to them. If Greagoir decided to punish him, Wynne could do nothing beyond object, but it was a comfortable lie. Anders didn't argue or protest. Instead, he allowed her to pull him into an embrace, resting his head on her bosom and rocking with her as she murmured soothing noises and rubbed between his bony shoulderblades.

Wynne felt like she was being torn in two. On the one hand, she wanted to make sure he never got himself into that position, but she knew that she couldn't watch him every hour of the day. He was Anders, and this incident only showed her that no matter how welcoming they were, or how many friends he made, the tower would never satisfy him. He would always push at the limits, and someday, the limits would push back. It was only a matter of time, and she would be helpless the day it came. Helpless, just like she was the day they took her son, weak and bleeding and barely able to cradle him to her chest the one time and smell his skin before they took him away to be raised Maker only knew where.

Wynne clutched him harder and pushed her tears back down. The day would come when she couldn't protect him, but for now, she still had that power, and she would do her best.

* * *

><p>Greagoir looked braced for battle when Wynne slipped into his office after dinner. To be fair, Wynne <em>had<em> mustered her fury again after delivering Anders safely to the dining hall. Her stomach felt like a lump of hot lead, so she'd forgone dinner, pacing through the library until she was sure the Knight-Commander would be available.

Greagoir threw up a hand. "I know what you're going to say already. I didn't hurt the boy."

"Not physically, anyway," she seethed. "Do you have any idea how much you frightened him?"

"Yes." He sat down behind his desk, using it as a shield of his authority. "Sit down, Wynne. Your coddling of the boy will lead to nothing but grief."

"I do not _coddle_ him." Wynne decided that remaining standing would seem petulant, so she sat across from his desk, determined to speak to him as adults. "I do what any decent human being would do and show him something other than fear and pain."

"You coddle him, and that won't help him adjust to the tower. Under your thumb, he'll continue to test the limits, inciting rebellion in all of the other apprentices." Greagoir put on a suitably grim countenance. "What I did today was an attempt to nip that thought at the bud. If he believes that I will resort to extreme violence in light of his little escape attempts, he may be willing to see reason and restrain himself."

"So you admit that you have no intention of hurting him?"

"I don't _intend_ anything," Greagoir snapped. "I am bound by the laws of the Circle just as surely as you are, Wynne. Punishment is left to the discretion of the Knight-Commander, and apostasy is a serious offense. If the boy continues to rebel, I will have no choice but to condone corporal punishment or, in the extreme, Tranquility. It is only his youth that protects him now, and he will be a man before long."

Wynne folded her arms across her stomach, and she couldn't hide the revulsion in her face. "You would flog a child?"

Greagoir's frown deepened. "I won't - I will make you a proposal, then. I will refrain from physical punishment until he is fifteen years of age, and in the event of another escape, I will restrict him to manual labor or time in solitary confinement as I see fit. Maker willing, we will not have to resort to any of these measures, but I hold you responsible. Give him no reason to flee."

"So we're bartering for a young man's life?" Wynne stood up. "This is preposterous, Greagoir. All he wants is freedom."

Greagoir stood as well. "Then he has chosen poorly, for that is the one thing he will never receive. Get out of my office, Senior Enchanter, unless you have another tirade you wish to launch against me."

Wynne could almost feel the hate she was exuding from her eyes. "No, I think we are finished here. I have nothing more to say to you at this time."

* * *

><p>"You see the obvious solution, don't you?"<p>

Wynne looked up from her dejected staring contest with her tea mug. Theold shrugged at her, reaching across the table to snag another scone.

After a stretch of silence in which the younger man buttered and bit into his snack, Wynne finally asked, "What do you mean?"

Theold swallowed and grinned. "Now you're talking. As I was saying, there's an obvious solution to your Anders problem."

"Theold, there _is_ no obvious solution, other than the boy getting a complete personality makeover along with his next growth spurt." She sighed heavily for the nth time that evening. "He's going to run, and Greagoir's going to punish him. That's that."

Theold snapped his fingers under her nose. "Oh, cut the bullshit, Wynne. It's not like you to just give up. The solution's simple: make him invaluable."

"What?"

The healer snorted. "You heard me. Spirit healers are rare. Goodness knows we try, but most of us healers just don't have that Fade connection." He looked wistful for a moment before he shook himself out of it. "My own lustings aside, Anders has potential. Lots of potential. So, I'm going to teach him everything I know about Creation spells, and even more about proper bedside manner. Then _you_ are going to make him the best spirit healer ever. With powerful healing magic like that, Greagoir could never justify Tranquilizing him, so all we have to worry about is extreme emotional trauma and maiming. Simple, easy to deal with."

Wynne stared at him for several seconds before she devolved into incredulous laughter. For his part, Theold just looked jaunty and smug.

"'Extreme emotional trauma and maiming?' Simple? You have an odd notion of reality, Enchanter." Wynne quieted and wiped her eyes. "I see where you are getting to. I thought that was our plan already?"

"Well, I may be a little more dedicated than I was before… But, anyway, you were being more maudlin than usual. You know I hate maudlin."

"Yes, yes… How goes your tutelage, by the by?"

Theold shrugged and looked a bit sheepish. "I don't think he likes me. Something about male authority figures just gets his hackles up. I think I've learned half a dozen ways to question a person's legitimacy in Anders by now. Perfect for that retirement to the Anderfels I was planning. So, I've taught him how to make spell wisps and a few glyphs, but healing is progressing slowly. He has to unlearn everything he picked up before coming here and do it properly, and he drags his heels at every suggestion."

Wynne tapped a finger on her lips. "I can see how that could be frustrating. Have you tried letting _him_ direct the coursework?"

"Oh? What do you mean by that? I though _I_ was the mentor, here."

"Don't get offended. I just mean that Anders seems like a person who would appreciate a little… control over his studies."

Theold frowned, eyes going distant as he hashed out possible scenarios. "So you want me to give a choice? Like 'want to practice fractures or concussions?' That sort of thing? If you're sure that it won't infringe on my dubious authority…"

Wynne shrugged lightly. "It was merely a suggestion, Theold. You don't have to do anything you're uncomfortable with."

"No, no, I'm intrigued." Theold shot her one of his trademark boyish grins and stood up. "I'm off, then. Have I mentioned lately that you're my favorite mentor?"

"I was your only mentor."

"All the more reason for you to be favorite. Good night!"

Wynne watched him go, feeling her mood considerably lightened from before. She finished her tea and dragged herself to her feet. The night was young, and she had a feeling that she would be more use playing Fade guide in the apprentice quarters that night than sleeping in her own bed.

* * *

><p>Theold found her again the day after that.<p>

"Well, your strategy seems to have worked. He's actually studying now."

"Oh?" Wynne shuffled through the paperwork on her desk, only half-paying attention to the conversation. "What did he choose?"

Wynne glanced up to see Theold bite his lip before turning away. He started walking for the door, and reluctantly threw over his shoulder,

"In not-so-many-words, he said he wants to learn to hide bruises."


	7. Weather Never Ever

I'll Keep a Candle Lit – We're back in business, baby!

Chapter Seven: Weather Never Ever

So, I'm not sure how long it's been, but I've had a string of computer problems eventually culminating in buying a new laptop with my student loan money and setting up a new wireless router. And that's the good news! The bad news:

Lent is early this year!

Now, I usually don't broadcast what I give up for Lent because I think that takes away from the sacrifice of it. (Mmhm, Catholic. We've got a thing for sacrifice) But this year, I'm giving up fanfiction because it's the one thing that would completely and totally suck to not have. So, just as I get my computer back online, I'm giving fanfic up until Easter. I might still write it, because being without the creative outlet this long has been driving me slowly insane, but definitely won't be reading or publishing it. So, in apology, I whipped this mini chapter up for y'all.

I hadn't planned on this at all until a few nights ago, lying awake with my sick baby brother (seriously, no sleep in _days_) I listened to the rain hitting the windows and pelting against the glass with the wind and I just _knew_ I'd have to write about the first rainstorm in the tower. It just had potential, you know? And then the idea of family traditions came in, and Andraste's shin bone... Lots of stuff bouncing around in a short chapter. I'm very out of practice.

I also apologize to any German speakers out there for my "Anders." I triple checked my Google Translate, but there's room for error there. It's only two sentences, I promise.

And, for anyone interested, I put up a tiny little mini-rant on my profile about non-con. It pertains to this story as well as kind of a warning for future readers about how I will or won't handle the idea.

And finally (I think) the ridiculously long title of this fic is my unreferenced version of the song the Dodo Bird sang in the Disney animated Alice in Wonderland. I have no reason why. I just sing it to myself all the time.

* * *

><p><strong>I Never Ever Ever Do A Thing About the Weather (For the Weather Never Ever Does a Thing For Me)<strong>

Contrary to popular belief, the Magi Tower of Kinloch Hold did have windows.

Granted, they were magically sealed and barred, but they did let in light and the unchanging scenery of Lake Calenhad. Sometimes the enchantments wore away, as the incident of the Anders in the night had proven, but from the bottom to the top, the walls of the tower were evenly spaced with tall, thin windows of thick, warped glass.

Wynne woke up with the certain, undefinable feeling that something was different. In a tower full of people who could manipulate destructive forces of nature at will, she'd thought that she would have been past that at this point, but the fact of the matter was that she remained distinctly perturbed throughout her entire morning routine. It wasn't until she encountered the first group of apprentices that she got an inkling of what was wrong.

The apprentices let out a collective gasp as the window they gathered around rattled, the sound quickly followed by a series of small taps.

It was raining.

Wynne let her grin show plainly on her face as she glanced past the knot of heads to see the grey sky and hear a low, distant rumble of thunder that drew shrieks from the youngest of the group.

"Did you see that?" One older girl turned to her friend. "Real lightning!"

"It's so much prettier than the stuff we make," another cooed.

Wynne sighed contentedly. The changing of the weather was always a favorite time of year, but she couldn't very well let them miss breakfast. She ushered them off with a good-humored warning of, "The rain won't go anywhere, but if you don't hurry, the Templars will eat all the porridge!"

She didn't see Anders on the way to breakfast, but that in itself wasn't unusual. If she knew the boy at all, he'd be sneaking off to break out to feel the rain on his face or some other tomfoolery that would only end in tears. She forced the worry down and instead basked in the general aura of revelry as the tower residents – mage and Templar alike – tittered and gossiped and perked up at the sheer novelty of the first winter rain blowing up on Lake Calenhad. The newness would wear off, she knew, and in a few short months, there would be endless complaints of the cold and the damp, but for now, they were excited, and Wynne couldn't help but feel happy for them.

After breakfast, the apprentices trailed off to their classes, and Wynne stopped by the library to pick up a reference for her current thesis on nonmagical treatments for lockjaw. The Revered Mother in the tower had commissioned the research, and Wynne wanted to get the majority of her contribution completed before the winter's usual crop of breathing illnesses and melancholy swamped the infirmary. In her preoccupation, she nearly stumbled over the boy on the floor outside of her office.

"Anders?" Wynne toed him dubiously as her mind flailed desperately around the abrupt shift in focus. "What are you doing down there? Aren't you supposed to be studying runes right now?"

"Primal magic, actually." Anders hauled himself to his feet and stepped out of her way, his arms wrapped around himself self-consciously. "Probably going to be ice again, so I'm not missing anything."

"You're so sure?" Wynne unlocked the door and waved her hand, making the candles flare to life. "Oh, come in. If you're going to get caught skipping classes, I don't want it to be outside my office. I refuse to be implicated in your schemes, young man."

For once, Anders didn't rise to the bait, picking listlessly at a loose bit of thread from the paisley portion of his robes instead. He fiddled with the books at her desk, frowning thoughtfully at "The Unseen Menace: the Demons of Disease."

"What in the Void?"

Wynne waved her hand dismissively. "Research. That one is from a radical healer in Nevarra. Interesting enough, but I don't think you're here to debate disease demons versus germ theory. What's the matter? Have you come down with a cold?"

Anders shook his head mutely, moving on to prod at a small case containing an old gag gift from Irving, a "genuine certified" fragment of Andraste's shin bone.

"If you don't start talking, I'm dosing you with elfroot syrup and beginning forced bedrest." Wynne sat down at her desk and began arranging blank vellum and sharpening a quill. "I'd have thought you'd be out there watching the rain like the other mages."

Anders twitched and moved to sit with his backside resting on the back of one of Wynne's chairs, facing away from her. His hands twitched some more before they settled for gripping the chair on either side of himself.

"My mother loved the rain."

Wynne's hands stilled for a second and she shot his back an inquisitive glance. When he didn't continue, she resumed her sharpening.

Anders was silent for a while before her carried on as if there had been no pause. "It was one of the few times she would smile like that. I mean, she smiled, sure, but it was always kind of nervous. My father would drink a lot, and sometimes, when he came home, he would be mad."

Wynne broke her silence then. "Was he ever violent?"

Anders lifted a shoulder in a shrug. "Sometimes. It wasn't a big deal. Lots of the tenant farmers spent extra on Brother Ralph's whiskey. My mother never complained, at least."

Wynne's mouth twisted bitterly, though she knew the boy couldn't see it. "Just because something is common doesn't make it right."

"I know that," Anders said placidly, though he didn't turn to face her. Instead, he seemed enraptured with the loose string he was fiddling with.

"You said something about the rain," Wynne prompted.

"Oh, that." Anders laughed, but the sound seemed more like grinding glass shards into stone than anything containing joy. "Can we just drop it?"

"You were the one who mentioned it," Wynne said reasonably, trying to feel out how much to push. "I just think that you would feel better if you got it off your chest. I know that the first year is the hardest, and with the weather changing…"

Anders turned and dragged the chair sideways before throwing himself down into it. "Just say it. We're all thinking it: the rain is exciting and new and not-boring, but why can't we just step outside to _feel_ it? How would that hurt? I've never seen anyone turn abomination or cut their wrists open because of a few _raindrops_."

Wynne slowly, deliberately set down the sharpened quills and the small knife, focusing on that simple task so that Anders couldn't read the agreement in her eyes. Letting him know that she felt just as trapped as he did would be like throwing lantern oil on embers – she didn't want to open that can of worms just yet. The tower just wasn't ready for an Anders-scale rebellion so soon.

"Is that why you're not watching the raindrops like your classmates?"

Anders' mouth twisted and he turned his face away from her. "It's not… I can't. I just can't."

"Because of your mother?"

Anders didn't quite nod. His head just bowed further, so that he seemed to be staring at the floor. Wynne watched him with unconcealed concern.

"Rain was like… like a holiday to my mother," he said eventually, to the floor. "I don't think it rained much in the Anderfels. She called it the life of the land, and she would smile _that_ smile. If we had a little extra, she would make this sweet bread. She only made it on rainy days. She wouldn't even make it on feast days. Only when it rained. My pa wouldn't even drink on those days, and everything felt… perfect, until the rain stopped." Anders shrunk further in on himself. Wynne almost didn't hear what he said next, "I'm never going to see her again, am I?"

Wynne tried to comfort him. Really. But the words stuck in her throat like uncooked dumplings. Every apprentice reached this point sooner or later. The finality of their life sentence would close around them like a noose, and they' end up either breaking down completely or finding someone to hold them together. That said, Wynne stood up, walked around her desk, knelt before him, and drew Anders into a tight embrace.

That was obviously the right response, for Anders didn't push her away, only slid down until they were once again kneeling on the floor, rocking together.

"_Ich möchte diesen Ort zu verlassen,"_ Anders whispered into her shoulder. "_Ich vermisse meine Mutter_."

Wynne didn't speak Anders, but she found herself whispering back, "I know, I know. It will get better."

"Will it?"

Wynne swallowed the lump in her throat. He was so young, still. How could she tell him that yes, the pain eventually fades, but there were still moments when, randomly, she would stop and think 'where is my son? what is he doing?' and it cut like a knife every time. Could she tell him of the tears she'd shed every month until her cycles stopped for the children and family she would never have? How much it had hurt to recommend the father of her child for a transfer out of Ferelden, just to protect him? Could she tell him that by now, she could barely remember anything before the tower, that her parents were likely dead and she'd never gotten to say goodbye?

"Yes," she said. "It will."

Weeks later, winter was swiftly consuming the tower. She looked up one day to see a familiar shaggy blonde head, facing out the window. Rain fell outside, and he watched it with a jaw clenched tight and stormclouds reflected on hard brown eyes.

It wasn't better, she thought.

But it would get there eventually.


End file.
